


parallel lines

by kittalee



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Art appreciation, Gen, Gift Fic, JaegerCon 2013, all the art appreciation, what is this 'plot' you speak of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittalee/pseuds/kittalee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Hong Kong Shatterdome there was no room for art, but Stacker Pentecost was used to making room for the little things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	parallel lines

**Author's Note:**

> Gifted to [rob-anybody](http://rob-anybody.tumblr.com) as part of Jaegercon 2013.

In the Hong Kong Shatterdome there was no room for art, but Stacker Pentecost was used to making room for the little things. He kept a few pieces of art here and there, mostly prints by struggling local artists that had a tough time finding willing buyers in an economy that was focused around the military and Kaiju-proofing. On the rare occasions Stacker had a day off—(before the Jaeger program was stripped down to the bones)—Stacker and Mako would wander Hong Kong. Just walking. Reminding themselves there was civilization outside, that lives were being lived, that there was a reason they stayed in the Shatterdome.

Somehow Stacker always ended up in some art gallery off in a small alleyway somewhere in the historic part of the city. Somehow Stacker always ended up walking out that art gallery with a new painting or sculpture or print to wedge into a small corner somewhere in the vast Shatterdome. Mako knew Stacker kept paintings in some of the empty pilot rooms, one or two small statuettes as bookends, and a bizarre print of a Monet-esque cityscape above the sandwich line in the cafeteria.

They were nice. They made the Shatterdome feel almost normal. Important, even. The Wei triplets always made it a game to see who could find the newest addition to the art family first; Sasha laughed at their competition (though more kindly than she normally did); and Newt, once somebody let it slip the Wei triplets were art-hunting, would light up like a Christmas tree, abandon Herman (much to Herman's immense displeasure), track Stacker down via Tendo and the one or two interns who were absolutely terrified of the crazy man with Kaiju tattoos, and somehow end up in a relatively civilized conversation with Stacker about, well, artsy things that Mako neither understood nor cared much for. 

Mako decided she liked artwork well enough that she didn’t mind too much when Stacker found fit to stick Chinese things (“Mako, it’s one the few Mu Xin paintings that survived the Cultural Revolution, I _can’t_ let it go to waste”) in her room. She never developed an artistic appreciation her sensei naturally had, never really understood color theory and technique beyond the textbook, never really could understand why Stacker was so fond of Kieran Williamson’s landscapes or Vermeer’s pearl ladies. Mako was simpler in that respect. As soon as she became his adopted daughter, Stacker saw fit to oversee her education and part of it always included Art. When Stacker finally admitted that Mako would never be much of an artist, the art classes morphed into Art History. Her finals were museum trips, and Mako dreaded them, because unlike math, or physics, or even English, art was an area that never quite clicked. Stacker would knock on her door bright and early, and they’d walk or bus or get a car to the museum. They were always one of few who visited and were always welcomed and were always given their privacy. Stacker would wave Mako through the Asian art section and turn her to the Impressionist paintings or the Ancient Greek sculptures or the avant-garde modern pieces and then drill her—what is this saying? what does this mean? what is the artist trying to say? what is the artist unintentionally revealing? And oh, Mako loved her sensei, loved him almost as much as she loved the memories of her family, but she nearly hated those finals. Did it matter an old white man’s bust was larger than her? Did it matter that one painting was realistic while the next hyper-realistic?

Stacker knew she disliked those finals, but he insisted. When Mako asked _why?!_ —in a fit of sixteen year-old petulance—Stacker said something along the lines of wanting Mako to have a comprehensive education. When Mako asked _why_ —after seeing a blue kimono that sparked memories of the blue kimonos her mother used to wear to festivals and very nearly breaking down into tears—Stacker said that art was important. The people in power liked art, whether because they were bred to like art from a young age or because they thought being an erudite connoisseur of chiaroscuro pieces gave them a sort of gravitas or because they wanted to distinguish themselves from the—from the _less educated_. The people in power liked art. If Mako ever wanted to knock elbows with them she had to like art. It was the idle chatter of the idle rich and the easy conversation of the powerful. Galleries were where the important people of the day gathered to sip champagne and fine French wines. Exhibitions were where the rich mingled and sought to strengthen relationships. Stacker had learned this the hard way. He was determined Mako would not.

Mako understood art was a form of expression, like music. She understood it had all sorts of little clues to the era and the life of the people who made it or were its subjects. She understood it was so hard to master. But she did not understand art like Stacker did. Her sensei would look at something—it could be a landscape that didn’t even look too much like the real landscape, or a haughty half-drawn woman from the Belle Époque—and become quiet. Mako would look at him instead of the art, sometimes. She'd watch the way his eyebrows would draw together, not because of frustration or anger or worry but because of careful consideration, and would watch how he’d lean forward, study the brush lines, the way some paint was gathered in one corner, or stand around a statue of a mouse sitting on a man that Mako cringed horribly at, and watch how the light fell across the smooth surfaces, or get very close so that a mere breath existed between Stacker's dark eyes and the carefully-sculpted mouse hide. Mako looked at art and saw lumps of clay twisted into pretty shapes, or an extremely audacious man who dropped a priceless vase for attention, or a portrait that was painted simply for the sake of winning bread for the painter's poor family.

The one piece she’d been fond of was an old print with a Lao Tzu quote emblazed on it, ‘life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides’ in big brassy letters over a plain black background. When the Jaeger program was large and healthy, and the Marshall’s office wasn’t a little bunker but a grand corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of a stark Alaskan bay, Stacker used to keep the print on the inside of his office door. As a reminder, he once told Mako. Because of that Mako suspected the print was a gift from Tamsin. From the few stories Stacker tersely offered when Mako dared to prod, Tamsin seemed like the person who would like motivational quotes and prints and slightly 'hipster' wall decor. Mako had never asked—the print had vanished sometime during the move from his old offices in Anchorage to Hong Kong—and it was terribly impolite to pry about things that were gone, her father used to chide.

Mako used to stare at the print while waiting for sensei to get back from such-and-such meeting; a month before sensei died, Mako had browsed through an Etsy store and found a print with the same quote, but it was (white and silver and some silly red thread wove between the letters) nothing like the original, not even close. What Stacker would think if she tried to replace a gift from Tamsin. Shitsurei ne!

She regrets that choice, now. She loves Stacker more than she loves the memories of her family, and she wishes she had more opportunities to show him, oh, how she wishes! It is an ache in her chest, a weariness in her bones, a mugginess in her head that makes her wish even for another final, even one about Marcel Duchamp and his readymades. 

Raleigh drinks those memories during the first Drift he and Mako share post-breach. Mako is slightly uncomfortable with his—enchantment? fascination? enthrallment?—and Raleigh knows this, but Raleigh is only human and drinks all those memories of museum trips and quiet conversations anyways. In a battle-Drift there is no time to really, truly  _savor_ those memories. They are there and both pilots know they are there, but there is a considerable difference between knowing something and experiencing it, relieving it, feeling the hot prickle of regret as Mako re-lives the experience of staring at the white-and-silver print, feeling the shame Mako felt when she'd nearly cried while looking at a blue kimono just because her sensei had asked her what kimonos symbolized. Raleigh lingers over those memories, caresses them tenderly so Mako's mind shivers and bursts into bright colors, folds them neatly into himself like they are precious things.

 _It's strange_ , she tells him, off-handedly. Probably Raleigh was not supposed to hear; probably Mako wanted him to. A casual observer might've thought Mako was referring to the legions of paps and reporters camped around the new Ritz that had been erected in Hong Kong; or thought Mako was wondering at the results of a UN report Herc had forwarded to her that basically said "well if those goddamn scientists Drifted with a Kaiju we're fucked so let's keep the Jaegers" (Raleigh's one-sentence summary of a hundred-page report); or thought Mako was still a bit gobsmacked by the new scientist that had helped them during Raleigh and Mako's first drift since the breach was closed and had spent a good ten minutes babbling about how she was so inspired by Mako, so thrilled an Asian woman like her was in the Jaeger Program—no, an integral part of the Jaeger Program—and would it be weird if she got Mako's signature? Oh, and Raleigh's, too, of course.

 _It's strange_ , she tells him, off-handedly. Raleigh immediately knows she is thinking about that Drift, the first Drift that was not a consequence of a need to prepare for battle or to actually battle, but of a growing interest in the Drift's psychological effects. Perhaps it's a bit of the Drift that still connects them. Or perhaps Raleigh is good at reading Mako, made it his goal to read the stiffness in Mako's worn face; how she stands a bit further away from him, turned toward the balcony, as her entire being grieves for her sensei-Marshall-father; the way her eyes catch on the print above their hotel bathroom that has some hackneyed motivational quote printed in the same brassy color as Stacker's print was and linger, mind's eye recreating that print with the Lao Tzu quote.

Raleigh has been watching Mako carefully since the breach was closed; he worries for her, constantly, worries that she has not cried for Stacker, worries that she has not laughed after Stacker. When Raleigh tries to comfort Mako, even with something as simple as a hug, Mako shies away—she lets Raleigh sling an arm around her when they eat with Herc and she lets Raleigh put a hand on her shoulder to let her know she's staring the reporters down and she even lets Raleigh hold her hand, sometimes, when they are alone—but Mako will not let Raleigh comfort her when she thinks of Stacker.

 _It's strange,_ she tells him, off-handedly. Raleigh does not think it's strange he loves those memories Mako has of Stacker-Mako-and-Art, and he tells her so with the little quip of his mouth that means he's silently laughing while simultaneously cooing at her. Raleigh admits the laughing. He denies the cooing. Mako turns and puts her hands on her hips, glares at him from underneath bangs that are growing longer, and demands to know  _why._

 _I didn't know Stacker liked art_ , Raleigh offers. _I thought he'd be too much of a hardass to care for art,_ Raleigh continues. Mako stares at him. Finally Raleigh gives in. He tells her  _you really loved him,_ and the soft look in his blue eyes tells everything Mako needs to know. _  
_

She does not know that a half hour after their Drift—a half hour after Raleigh watched Mako doodling on scrap paper while waiting in Stacker's Anchorage office and staring at the pretty print, wondering what, exactly, 'life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides' actually meant; watched Stacker explain the quote by offering a truly hefty lesson on Lao Tzu; watched Mako smile as she took a bit of pride in her new understanding of this particular piece of art, finally understanding why it was just brassy letters on a black background, finally found a piece of art both she and Stacker liked—that Raleigh had gone on the internet and gone hunting.

It takes a few days for Mako to suspect. By then Raleigh has shown Mako all sorts of prints with different quotes in different fonts, alternated between looking extremely pleased with himself and extremely angry at himself, gone a truly startling shade of magenta during a phone call with Tendo Choi, and stared at the print above their hotel bathroom far more than Mako has. Still, Mako cannot prove anything until they return to Hong Kong after the press junket. As soon as she and Raleigh step into the mess hall, Newt pounces on Mako, intent on interrogating her about something or another she'd said about him during an interview, Herc calls Mako to his office (twice), and everyone is determined to get Raleigh and Mako spectacularly drunk. To forget their new battle scars from the brutal press junket, a very drunk man from HR says, solemnly, while handing Raleigh and Mako something incredibly fluorescent and insanely pink. It takes hours for Mako and Raleigh to untangle and escape.

Raleigh is jittery as they quietly walk to their rooms. He does a good job of disguising it, much like how a puppy disguises the fact he's chewed through a favorite pillow. Mako says nothing, if only to watch Raleigh squirm a bit.

Mako leaves Raleigh standing in the middle of the hall. When she opens the door she quickly catalogues her room—still the same sheets, same desk, same prints, same Mu Xin painting, same wayward stack of paper in the middle of the floor—if not a bit dustier. When she closes the door she sees someone has hung a print on it. 'Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides,’ it says, in big brassy letters over a plain black background. Mako wants to cry, or scream, or punch Raleigh, or hug Raleigh, or run to Stacker's old office and have an emotional breakdown. Instead Mako slides to the floor starts laughing—very hysterically, very unbecomingly—and Raleigh is rushing through her door, and saying he  _overstepped the boundaries_ and  _oh god I'm sorry_ and  _I know you don't have that many pictures with Stacker so I thought this could—could connect you two._ Mako is crying, Mako is laughing for the first time since Mako's sensei-Marshall-father Stacker Pentecost died; Raleigh is so, _so_  confused, his blue eyes confused and body screaming hesitation and worry and guilt.

She tells Raleigh she understands. She tells Raleigh she understands by pulling him down to the floor with her, and curling around him, and burying her head in his shoulder, laughing and crying and getting salty tears in his absurdly soft sweater. It takes a moment, but then Raleigh's arms are around her, and Mako can feel Raleigh begin to weakly laugh and weakly cry, and they sit there together, in the middle of Mako's room, surrounded by dust and art, until Mako smiles softly and Raleigh looks almost shy. They look at the print, together, and Mako thinks that it is beautiful.

In the Hong Kong Shatterdome there was no room for art, but Stacker Pentecost was used to making room for the little things. Art was not something Mako Mori loved. But _oh_ , Mako loves Stacker more than she loved the memories of her family, almost as much as she loves Raleigh, and for Stacker, and for the memories of her family, and for the shy smile that only sometimes graces Raleigh’s tired face, Mako loves art. The Jaeger program was changing, the world shifting, the Kaiju probably plotting, but Majo would make sure there was always room in some nook or cranny of the vast Shatterdome for a little bit of art. 

At the very least, a print.

**Author's Note:**

> ["Monet-esque cityscape"](http://popartmachine.com/art/27615%3A28%3A09%3A675743275/Famous%20Urban%20Landscape%20Paintings%3A%20Skyscrapers%20Hong%20Kong%20Oranges%20%26%20Grapes). [Kieron Williamson](http://www.kieronwilliamson.com/Home/tabid/288/language/en-US/Default.aspx). [_Girl with a Pearl Earring_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Girl_with_a_Pearl_Earring). [Chiaroscuro](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chiaroscuro). [Mu Xin](http://chronicle.uchicago.edu/020124/muxin.shtml). [_Man and Mouse_](http://mouseinterrupted.wordpress.com/tag/katharina-fritsch/). ["Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn"](http://www.phaidon.com/agenda/art/picture-galleries/2011/may/11/the-audacious-artwork-of-ai-weiwei/?idx=10). [Marcel Duchamp](http://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/themes/dada/marcel-duchamp-and-the-readymade). 
> 
> It's my headcanon that Stacker is in love with the idea of humanity. He's an art nut because he loves how art provokes, inspires, disgusts, amazes, degrades, uplifts, and, above all, mirrors humanity. That headcanon produced this...thing. I'm no writer; I have no idea what I am doing and no beta and nothing more than a really strong liking for _Pacific Rim_.
> 
> I can be found on [tumblr](http://kittalee.tumblr.com).


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